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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 10:37
Since retiring, I have joined the University of the Third Age and undertaken several courses, including a couple of long-term ones: Learning Mandarin and Creative Writing.
During the past few years, I have written a series of short stories, some of which relate to my days as a seafarer in the early/mid-1970s. Without wishing to sound vain, I have had good feedback from friends and fellow students. And I thought I might test out some of these stories on you.
I do not intend to get them published, but I am tempted to produce a podcast in which I read each tale.
The first story is called “Ships that pass in the night”. I really would be very interested in your feedback.
Thank you.
Oz
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 10:40
SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT
It`s a lifetime ago, but the memories linger, unforgotten for me.
It was Christmas night aboard the ship as we ploughed a solitary path across the Indian Ocean from the Kenyan port of Mombasa to Colombo on the island of Sri Lanka.
We`d just spent weeks on the sweaty beehive that is the East African coast discharging the last remnants of our European cargo, and we were destined to spend many more weeks loading a few thousand tonnes of general cargo in ports large and small up and down the Indian coast.
We could expect to return to the British Isles sometime in the northern spring.
How the maritime industry has changed in the past 50 years. Schedules then were infinitely flexible, and our ship bore little resemblance to the boxy monstrosities of today.
She was built to elegant lines and displayed the faded grace of an elderly dowager as she advanced through the water at a sedate but determined 13 knots. She had once had the untouched looks of a pretty young debutante, but the years had slipped by since her launching on the River Clyde in the late 1950s, and the deathly inevitability of time, changing trends, the stiffening of her joints and too many dances with piers had brought wrinkles to her once smooth features.
Also, she had a drinking problem.
The Arab oil crisis, which had erupted a few months earlier, rocketing oil prices worldwide, rendered her thirsty steam engines uneconomic. She faced an uncertain future.
And so did I as I climbed the stairs to the bridge; the responsibilities of watchkeeping were very much on my mind that night.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 10:42
(CONT...)
The wheelhouse was in darkness as I entered, and in the suffused lighting of the chartroom, I found the chief officer filling in the ship`s logbook.
"Any news?" I inquired.
"Should be about 11 o`clock," he replied.
On the table, a series of crosses, marked with a 2B pencil, showed our steady if unspectacular progression across the chart of the northern sector of the Indian Ocean.
We`d crossed the equator earlier in the day as the ship`s complement had eagerly been preparing for Christmas lunch.
I walked over to the radar with the mate. Our faces and forearms glowed green in the reflected light of the cathode ray tube. A few sweeps of the scanner indicated no ships within 48 nautical miles. Inwardly, I was disappointed.
After a while, the mate left for the officers` bar, where he would join the captain and others for their nightly game of cribbage.
On the port bridge wing, Rao, the Bengali lookout, stood silently. He rarely spoke, but I knew that he would be vigilant.
It was a warm, still, tropical night, and the aroma of the mate`s pipe tobacco lingered in the wheelhouse.
I walked out onto the starboard bridge wing to catch the artificial breeze created by the dodgers - slits in the superstructure that collect and scoop up the air turbulence formed by the ship`s forward motion - and I scanned an empty horizon.
Above me, a million stars coruscated in the jet-black sky. Like generations of seamen before me, I cast an appreciative eye over the ocean`s infinite expanse surrounding my gently pitching ship.
I listened intently to the swish-swish-swish sound of steel piercing a silky-smooth ocean. Astern of me, white spots of light danced chaotically in our bubbly wake.
Moments like these, every seaman savours.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 10:43
(CONT...)
Returning to the radar, I spotted a solitary target fine on the starboard bow. I marked it on the screen with a white chinagraph pencil.
Rao walked over to the kettle and started his nightly ritual. The able seaman meticulously wiped the surface of a large white mug using a tea-towel emblazoned with the shipping line`s insignia.
Once completed to his satisfaction, he drew from a large tin three heaped teaspoonfuls of drinking chocolate.
To this, he added a spoon of cold water and started to transform the compounds into a dark brown paste in a slow, rhythmic, circular motion, which I always found hypnotic.
When the kettle boiled, he reached into a cupboard and withdrew a tin of evaporated milk. He gingerly poured some into the mug and resumed the circular motion, this time a little faster.
The mug`s contents had now changed form and texture into a silky-smooth light brown liquid.
Satisfied that the time was right, Rao poured the boiling water until the mug was half full. He stirred in a clockwise direction.
Then, with the drinking chocolate still swirling, he filled the container.
Finally, with a flourish, Rao stirred first one way, then the other, until a deep vortex had been created in the middle of the liquid. In doing so, he produced a frothy cappuccino effect and the result, of course, was exquisite.
Over the years, I have often tried to replicate Rao`s brew, but I`ve never entirely succeeded.
A key ingredient is missing—the sea.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 10:45
(CONT...)
As the evening progressed, I tracked the target`s path on the radar as it converged with the centre of my screen.
Eventually, we spotted a pinprick of light on the horizon, fine on the bow. I made a minor adjustment to the ship`s course so that we would pass her safely on our port side.
As the minutes went by, the other ship`s red sidelight and two white masthead lights came clearer into view. A dark thought crossed my mind: Was this the correct ship?
Just then, the VHF radio crackled into life, ending my momentary doubt, and a broad smile crossed Rao`s face.
My father`s voice came across the ether.
This was the first time our paths had crossed at sea, and on that balmy, never-to-be-forgotten tropical night, we talked as we had never talked before.
And as we did so, it dawned on me that we weren`t just talking as father and son; for the first time, we were communicating as brother mariners.
We were still talking as the stern light of his ship flickered and disappeared over the horizon behind us.
For me, that was an extraordinary moment.
It had been a splendid Christmas.
*****
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Topic Originator: wee eck
Date: Thu 4 Apr 14:30
I enjoyed that and am already looking forward to the next one! It set the scene accurately but economically with just the right amount of anticipation as to what was going to happen.
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 23:26
Thanks for your positive comments, wee eck. I had hoped for more feedback, whether good or bad, but I will persist with one more story and call it a day. This one is called “The Art of Carefully Counting Frogs”. It is set on the passenger liner Windsor Castle.
Google “RMS Windsor Castle” to see pictures of this beautiful ship. I spent a fair chunk of 1975 aboard her, and, as this story explains, it turned out to be unforgettable.
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 23:29
THE ART OF CAREFULLY COUNTING FROGS
Did you know that certain compounds found in the skin secretions of frogs have medicinal properties and potential pharmaceutical applications? And I wonder if you knew that frogs, specifically African Clawed Frogs, were historically used in pregnancy tests?
Scientists developed the frog pregnancy test in the 1940s. It was a standard method before the advent of more modern and accurate pregnancy tests. The test relied on the fact that female African Clawed Frogs would lay eggs in response to certain hormones found in the urine of pregnant women.
The African Clawed Frog became popular in scientific laboratories for various biological studies. However, scientists developed more reliable and humane pregnancy tests as technology advanced. The use of live frogs in the UK for these tests died out in the mid-1970s, and it would not be unreasonable to suggest that I had some responsibility for that.
Let me explain.
It was 1975, and I was 20. I was serving as the third officer of the Royal Mail Ship Windsor Castle, the world`s fourth-largest passenger liner, behind the QE2. Windsor Castle was the flagship of the Union-Castle Steamship Company. She was as beautiful a ship as one could imagine at that time: 38,000 tonnes, with a lavender hull, white superstructure, and a red funnel with a black top. She looked sensational from every angle and carried 850 passengers.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 23:30
(CONT...)
Windsor Castle was one of seven Union-Castle Line ships sailing from England to South Africa on a regular weekly liner service. Round voyages lasted five weeks and three days, calling at Southampton, the island of Madeira, Las Palmas in the Canary Islands, Cape Town, Port Elizabeth, East London, and Durban before turning around and visiting the same ports on the voyage back to Southampton.
I had served as a cadet on general cargo ships and bulk carriers for the previous three years. So, to find myself a watchkeeping navigating officer role on such an elegant and prestigious ship was to win the jackpot, for every evening after my watch on the bridge, I would return to my cabin, take a shower, change into my dress uniform, comb my hair, splash on my expensive, but carefully selected, Monsieur Worth aftershave, and stroll down to the ship`s discotheque.
I had found the dream job for a 20-year-old lad in 1975 and had no desire to give it up until I was ready to. As it turned out, I completed five round voyages on Windsor Castle. Ultimately, I was desperate to leave and return to more conventional ships. The truth is you can get way too much of a good thing.
However, halfway through my first voyage on Windsor Castle, as the ship was berthed in Cape Town, loading passengers, and preparing for the return voyage northwards to England, the chief officer asked me if I would care to keep an eye on a "live cargo" that was to be in the upper `tween deck of a cargo hold near the stern of the ship.
Anxious to please my senior officer, I readily agreed to "keep an eye on" a dozen metal tanks full of water and thousands of live African Clawed Frogs. He told me the content of these tanks represented the British scientific community`s annual replenishment of laboratory frog stocks.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 23:33
(CONT...)
My task was to check on the health of these amphibians twice a day and, if necessary, extract any frogs that may have died. The chief officer assured me this would be relatively straightforward to detect, as frogs` chests expand when they die, making them float upside down on the water.
The upper `tween deck sat directly below an open area on the aft deck immediately astern of the tourist-class swimming pool. When the cargo hold was closed, the hatch cover above it was flush and indistinguishable from the main deck. This feature enabled passengers to lie on towels, relax in deck chairs, or play quoits or deck tennis in the area. You accessed the upper `tween deck through a small hatch lid on the main deck hidden from view and down a 12-foot vertical ladder. No lights were in this cargo hold, so you needed to carry a powerful torch when entering the space.
It was 11 days to Southampton. I planned to visit the frog tanks twice daily – at about 0830, just after my early morning 4 to 8 watch on the navigation bridge, and again at about 1530, just before my evening watch.
I was required to monitor the temperatures in each tank and the condition of the frogs and, where necessary, extract dead frogs from the tanks and record the numbers in a logbook supplied by the African exporter. Surprisingly, I was not required to feed the frogs, so presumably, they would sustain themselves by feeding off something already placed in the tanks.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 23:35
(CONT...)
These tanks were spread across the upper `tween deck, perhaps 10 feet apart. They were made of aluminium and circular at the base, about 6 or 7 feet in diameter. The circular bottom rose for about a foot and a half before taking on a conical shape that narrowed to about 18 inches in diameter at the top, approximately four feet from the base. At the summit was a metal grill, which served as a viewing point that I could open. When I shone my torch into this space, hundreds of little faces looked back at me, matching my curiosity.
We completed the loading of the tanks on the morning of Tuesday, February 18, and set sail from Cape Town at 4 pm. Two hours later, with Table Mountain still visible astern, I took a compass bearing of the northern end of Robben Island, and we set the north-westerly course we would remain on for six days until we reached our next waypoint, 3,000 miles distant, west of Dakar in Senegal. Unbeknownst to me, just a few miles from my ship, on Robben Island, prisoner 11657/63 sat in a jail cell. Nelson Mandela had been confined there for 11 years and still had 15 to go before he would be released.
The first couple of days sailing northbound were uneventful. As a precaution, I had obtained a sieve from the galley to scoop out any dead frogs, but in the first 48 hours, I had found barely a handful of casualties in the tanks. On the third day out from Cape Town, things started to change.
With the benefit of hindsight, I should have known better than to enter a large, isolated, dark chamber alone. Still, on that third morning, I opened the hatch cover and descended the vertical ladder into the pitch-dark upper `tween deck. In my left hand, I held the sieve, and with my right hand, I reached into my boiler suit pocket and extracted a torch.
The moment I switched on the torch, the silence in the chamber was replaced by a cacophony. The frogs noted the slight change in light conditions and croaked, "RIBBIT… RIBBIT… KNEE DEEP… KNEE DEEP… RIBBIT… RIBBIT".
As I had done since the first day, I walked to the far end of the cargo space, intending to inspect the tanks progressively back towards the access ladder.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 23:36
(CONT...)
When I opened the inspection grill on the first tank, it was immediately evident that I had a problem. A mass of inflated, white-bellied frogs, legs akimbo, covered the tank water`s surface. And a dank smell met my nose, a festering smell of amphibian death. As I directed the light of my torch around the interior of the tank, I could see the noses and eyes of live frogs struggling to peek between the corpses on the surface. I reached in with my sieve, scooped out the dead - there were more than 60 – and placed them in a pile on the deck before securing the grill and moving on to the second tank.
It was a similar story there. I had to extract more than 100 dead frogs, and by the time I finished, I could feel a nauseousness growing inside me.
Labouring somewhat, I moved on to the third tank. I opened the viewing grill and peered inside. I shone the torch around the interior and noted that this tank appeared less affected than the others. Fewer than ten corpses were lying on the surface of the water. Below, hundreds of little frogs quizzically looked up at me. It was then that the unthinkable happened.
A frog leapt up from the crowd and attached itself to my nose, prompting me to let out a screech and let go of my torch. The torch dropped into the bottom of the tank and immediately extinguished. I lay stretched out on the conical side of the metal tank and started to grasp the seriousness of my predicament.
It was pitch dark, and I had lost all sense of direction. I peered anxiously around the cargo space, searching for the small light from the access hatch. It took quite a while for my eyes to adjust to the changed conditions, and I felt strangely disoriented.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 23:37
(CONT...)
Meanwhile, sensing their opportunity, a never-ending procession of tiny frogs leapt out of the third tank and, in the darkness, eagerly began to explore the upper `tween deck.
Eventually, I detected the faint light from the access hatch in the distance and began to walk towards it. After tripping up on securing cleats on the deck and bashing my shins into tanks, I decided it was safest to crawl gingerly through this obstacle course to the exit. Now and again, there would be an unpleasant squelch as my weight would come down on a freshly released African Clawed Frog. The chamber echoed to the sound of "RIBBIT… RIBBIT… KNEE DEEP… KNEE DEEP… RIBBIT… RIBBIT", and in the darkness, I felt transported to the heart of an African rainforest.
I sluggishly climbed the access ladder to the main deck and felt the rush of sparkling clean sea air on my face. Release from the dank and unhealthy atmosphere of the upper `tween deck instantly brought me a sense of euphoria.
I reported my findings to the chief officer, who arranged for a couple of able seamen (ABs) to accompany me when I inspected the cargo hold in the future. A few hours later, I returned to the upper `tween deck with the ABs. We extracted several hundred dead frogs from the remaining tanks and chased, mainly in vain, the little frogs from the third tank who were relishing their taste of freedom.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 23:39
(CONT...)
By now, Windsor Castle was speeding at more than 20 knots towards the equator, and with each nautical mile gained, the temperature rose. The metal tanks were beginning to feel warm to the touch, and the internal water temperatures were rising steadily. The confined, enclosed space of the upper `tween deck, with metal surfaces everywhere, acted to smother the atmosphere, creating an oven, and the aluminium frog tanks effectively became casserole dishes. The smell of amphibian death in the upper `tween deck was becoming quite noticeable, not just to the three of us in the cargo hold but to perplexed passengers sunbaking on the deck above.
The apocalypse arrived on day four out of Cape Town. Just after breakfast, I met up with the two ABs, and we descended the steps at the end of the boat deck and strode past the tourist-class swimming pool. We all expressed surprise at how quiet this area was, especially on such a pleasant morning.
It was like a scene from the movie `On the Beach` after the nuclear explosion. The aft deck was deserted. We soon discovered why, for the smell was overpowering. We soldiered on and climbed down the ladder into the cargo hold. But after five minutes, we had to abandon that plan. We opened one tank and, to our horror, found the entire surface of the water covered in the bloated corpses of hundreds of frogs. It was impossible to carry on, so we resecured the grill cover and swiftly returned to the main deck.
The stench of slowly cooking frogs was everywhere.
What was once a drama had now developed into a full-blown crisis, and the chief officer, the bosun, and I met to discuss our options, which were few by that stage. We agreed that the bosun would call the deck crew out at 6 am the following day. I would oversee the opening of the cargo hatch, examine each tank, determine which, if any, could be saved, and release the contents of the other tanks into the ocean. Once completed, we would lift the surviving tanks onto the upper deck, where they would remain until we reached Southampton. A canvas awning would be constructed over and around the tanks to reduce their exposure to direct sun and keep them out of sight from passengers.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 23:40
(CONT...)
And so, the following day, Sunday, February 23, at 6 am, I left the chief officer on the navigation bridge and went aft to join the deck crew as the hydraulic system began to open the cargo hatch top. An indescribable smell rose from below and wafted over us, enveloping us all in a stench-filled fug. I watched the warmth in the faces of my companions, some as tough as seasoned oak with decades of maritime experience, drain away, leaving a sickly, almost translucent complexion as if the natural colour had been leached from their skin. And I was no different. As one, we raced to the shipside rails, retching and releasing the contents of our stomachs into the Atlantic Ocean, just 250 nautical miles south of the equator.
I inspected the tanks and identified four that were so contaminated they would need to be emptied. Another tank was already empty, save for my broken torch. Its contents would still need to be recovered from the nooks and crannies of the upper `tween deck where the little frogs had happily taken up residence. We would salvage what we could from the remaining seven tanks and move them to the main deck for the rest of the voyage. We estimated that no more than 50% of the original shipment was still alive at that point. Britain`s laboratory frogs would be in short supply in 1975.
I returned to the navigation bridge and, in the chartroom, filled in the latest sorry episode in the African exporter`s cargo record book. I also wrote a note in the ship`s official logbook:
"0700 – 4 tanks of dead frogs (No.5 Hatch Trunk) disposed of at sea."
Later that morning, I was relaxing in my cabin when a steward knocked on my door.
"The Commodore would like to see you in his office at 1200," he said.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 23:41
(CONT...)
I was at a loss as to why he would want to see me, as he didn`t often communicate directly with junior officers. Indeed, except when we were coming in and out of port, he spent most of his time with passenger management issues. I surmised that the chief officer had told him about my challenges with the frogs, and he would express a few words of appreciation and perhaps even offer me a pre-lunch gin and tonic.
The Windsor Castle was the flagship of the Union-Castle Line fleet, and her captain was known as the Commodore, the most senior captain in the company. Dressed in his tropical whites, the Commodore was a diminutive, painfully thin man. In shorts, he had the bandiest legs I had ever seen. He remarkably resembled the World War 2 military commander General Bernard Montgomery and shared many of his mannerisms, including his clipped speech pattern.
The Commodore stood in the hallway to welcome me as I reached the top of the stairwell and ushered me into his office. He was a stickler for good manners, even in the presence of his humblest employees.
I soon concluded that I wouldn`t be offered a pre-lunch cocktail. The Commodore`s office contained a desk, a settee and a couple of functional chairs. I found one of these while I took in my surroundings. The Commodore sat behind his desk while a grinning chief officer and an unusually glum chief purser sat on the settee. Across from me, in the other functional chair, sat a cabin steward whom I did not recognise. This was not unusual, for we had a crew of about 500.
The elderly cabin steward was visibly upset and clenched both hands tightly on his knees. His whole body was taut with anxiety.
"Steward, what would you like to say to the third mate?" the Commodore prompted.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 23:42
(CONT...)
The cabin steward stared at me, his eyes laser-focused, and replied contemptuously.
"What would I NOT like to say to him, more like!" he huffed. "Let me tell you, Mr Third Mate, every cabin steward on Decks C and D wants to throttle you! You have made our lives so miserable today…"
There were about 250 First-Class passengers on Windsor Castle, and the rest were designated Tourist Class. Some of the First-Class staterooms were magnificent and very expensive. In contrast, Tourist-Class cabins ranged from pleasant rooms with twin beds to tiny spaces with three or four bunks, a small sink, minuscule storage space, and a porthole.
The cheapest cabins were found on Decks C and D, close to the stern of the ship. These cabins were known as "steerage" for obvious reasons. Their proximity to the rudder and the ship`s propellers meant they often were subject to heavy vibration. And being adjacent to the engine room space, their air conditioning struggled to be effective in the tropics.
Over the years, cabin stewards had devised a system to help the passengers in these cabins receive the coolest and freshest air possible. They recommended that steerage passengers open the porthole. They then provided these passengers, for a small tip, with what was known as a scoop. This simple homemade device was extended out of the porthole to scoop up any air movement created by the ship`s forward motion. It proved very effective in the tropics but not in the early morning of Sunday, February 23.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 23:43
(CONT...)
By 7 am, most passengers in these cabins were in their bunks, either sleeping or idly opening their eyes to a brand-new day with a tropical breeze whooshing through the porthole, thanks to the scoop. The last thing they would have expected would be to be abruptly roused by four massive intakes of putrid water landing on their bunks and swilling to and fro about their cabin, accompanied by the bloated corpses of slimy frogs and more than a few that were still very much alive!
The chaotic scenes on Decks C and D would live on for years in the memories of the cabin stewards and, doubtless, some passengers, too. Rancid water poured into the long alleyways as scantily dressed passengers opened their cabin doors and screamed in horror at what they were seeing. An army of African Clawed Frogs hopped happily along the long corridors, seeking out exciting new adventures.
Months after this voyage, there were reports of tiny frogs still being discovered in the passenger accommodation of Windsor Castle.
Naturally enough, I did not escape this experience unscathed. For as long as I served aboard Windsor Castle, I was nicknamed The Frogman, and frequently, I had to endure a cheerful chorus of "RIBBIT… RIBBIT… KNEE DEEP… KNEE DEEP… RIBBIT… RIBBIT" from unsympathetic work colleagues.
A kind passenger and a mischievous purser bought me cloth frogs that coincidentally were for sale in the ship’s gift shop. I still have them, and they still make me smile.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Thu 4 Apr 23:45
(CONT...)
A Footnote: Thirty years later, in 2005, I noted a story in the international shipping industry newspaper, Lloyd`s List, that my old ship had finally gone to the scrapyard at Alang Beach in Gujarat on the west coast of India.
The article stated that an English company had obtained many items from Windsor Castle when she was being dismantled and had created a website where members of the public could purchase them.
There were a couple of items that I knew I had to get.
The first was the sign saying `3rd Officer` from above the door of my cabin on that ship. Today, the sign is above the door of my garden studio, where I am writing this story.
The second item cost me a lot of money to get to Australia but turned out to be an absolute steal: the ship`s official logbook from my first voyage aboard Windsor Castle.
Sailors have a well-earned reputation for telling tall tales, and this yarn about frogs certainly stretches credibility. But, if you open the logbook to Sunday, February 23, 1975, there is an entry, in the neat handwriting of a 20-year-old me, which says…
"0700 – 4 tanks of dead frogs (No.5 Hatch Trunk) disposed of at sea."
Isn`t it wonderful how a short, somewhat bland, apparently insignificant sentence can trigger a memory that endures almost half a century?
*****
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Topic Originator: wee eck
Date: Fri 5 Apr 16:50
Not such a happy ending as the first story! Again there was a nice build-up of tension before the conclusion. Is that exactly what happened or have you exercised a bit of artistic licence? Maybe you should consider writing your autobiography rather than short stories.
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Topic Originator: Raymie the Legend
Date: Fri 5 Apr 20:14
I preferred the first one, Oz. The detail you went into to describe the voyage was excellent.
You have a talent, for sure
It`s bloody tough being a legend
Ron Atkinson - 1983
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Sat 6 Apr 10:43
Thanks, fellas. I admit, I, too, prefer the first story to the second. Perhaps it carries more emotional baggage, even more so as years pass, we grow old, and the memory of our fathers fades into the distance.
Yes, wee eck, there is some artistic license used in the second story. Those elements of the story where I appear are largely from my personal memory or information I found in the ship’s official logbook. I also found a reference to the frog incident on a website created by one of the ship`s marine engineers. He even had some photos of me! Those elements of the story where I wasn’t directly involved relied on third parties, so yes, I did apply some creativity to those parts of the story.
Anyway, thanks very much for your help. I have no plans to publish this as an autobiography. My life has not been that exciting! However, I think we all have a few short stories in us.
😊
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Topic Originator: veteraneastender
Date: Sat 6 Apr 20:39
Did you feature in “Carry On Cruising” Oz ?
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Topic Originator: Luxembourg Par
Date: Tue 9 Apr 10:36
Can we anticipate a user-name change to ‘Frogman’?
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Wed 10 Apr 12:58
Lux, I spent nearly 50 years trying to forget that Frogman nickname, so I`ll stick with Oz.
And no, VEE, I didn`t feature in "Carry on Cruising", but I did appear on Spanish TV dressed as Uncle Bulgaria and dancing to "Remember You`re a Womble" with a handful of others in Wombles outfits as the lady who created the series, Elisabeth Beresford and her husband Max Robertson, the BBC tennis commentator, were interviewed while the ship was in Las Palmas.
But that would be another story...
:)
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Topic Originator: kozmasrightfoot
Date: Wed 10 Apr 14:42
I`ve written a decent amount of short stories over the past 5 or so years. I find it to be very therapeutic in my battles with mental health issues and the misery of existing on this pathetic rock.
Even though I think that a handful of them are above average (they`re certainly readable), I`m far to self conscious to let anybody else read them.
I`d recommend writing to anybody that needs a creative faucet to pour forth their deepest thoughts and feelings.
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Topic Originator: OzPar
Date: Wed 10 Apr 22:52
That`s encouraging to hear, kosmasrightfoot. Writing is definitely therapeutic in many ways. It can be an escape from the trials and tribulations of everyday life, which get you down.
Attending a regular creative writing course is a great way to meet people with similar interests. But I know that not everyone enjoys companionship. The act of writing itself can introduce you to new and interesting characters or old ones you thought you had forgotten.
My greatest fear in growing old is that Alzheimer`s will take over, as it did my mother, and I retain the hope that having something that demands a high level of concentration and focus will prove helpful in holding that off.
I have a neighbour who finds his escape building the most impressive models out of wood in his garden shed. Having a hobby that you enjoy has to be very good for you.
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Topic Originator: buffy
Date: Thu 11 Apr 13:06
Oz I have a poetry blog which I dip into now and again, and I’m (still) knee deep in a book I started writing 3 years ago. Time just gets away from me but it’s enjoyable when the ideas return.
Keep going with your short stories. I’ve enjoyed reading them here.
”Buffy’s Buns are the finest in Fife”, J. Spence 2019”
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